


Confronting What's Left

by Dwarven_ass_fine_dwarven_ass (Altairs_sister)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Cullen is nervous, Cullen's self loathing is its own character at this point, Drunk Sex, F/M, Rebound Sex, Smut, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-06-17 15:08:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15464106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Altairs_sister/pseuds/Dwarven_ass_fine_dwarven_ass
Summary: After the events at Adamant, previous Warden Commander Elise Amell confronts the Inquisition regarding the death of her husband and Commander Cullen Rutherford confronts some unresolved feelings from the Ferelden Circle.





	1. What happens in Skyhold

The resounding clatter of metal hitting the stones below their feet shattered the shocked silence which had overcome the room. The Inquisitor looked as though she wanted to demand who the intruder was and why she would dare enter a private, confidential meeting when a familiar form slunk through the door.

“I invited her,” Hawke said smoothly, gruff voice low. “She deserved to know.”

The Inquisitor turned her sharp gaze onto him, piercing blue eyes which made many a man shy away boring into his.

“Deserved to know what?” she demanded, and their unexpected guest answered.

“What happened to my husband, Insquisitor,” she said, and she sounded wrong. Her expressive Starkhaven voice was dead and emotionless, her kind face carefully blank, her grey eyes lost. She nodded briefly to Leliana, not smiling and turned her eternal eyes onto him.

“Cullen.”

He felt faint, as he ducked down to grab the metal piece he had dropped he grasped the table like a lifeline. He studiously avoided her eyes while he replaced it, worried she might see his hand trembling, and glanced up to see her focus on the Inquisitor.

“Pleasure to finally meet you, Inquisitor,” she said, voice still dead and emotionless. “I am Warden Amell.”

She extended a hand, which Aya stared at in shock, mouth agape.

“You mean...?” she trailed off dumbly, finally latching onto the human's hand and grasping it tightly. “Gods, I've heard so many stories!”

“As have I,” Amell responded shortly. Aya paused, and when she next spoke her voice was much softer.

“I'm sorry,” she said sincerely. “If I had known...”

Amell released her hand, raising her own to ease the elf.

“You couldn't have,” she murmured, and a sad, broken smile curled her mouth. “Ali wasn't all that good with the whole “forethought” thing.”

Slipping back into the neutral mask she had been wearing, Amell looked at each of them in turn.

“As I'm sure you _know_ ,” she said, glancing slyly at Leliana. “I have been researching a cure for the Blight. If you would allow it, I would like to continue my research here, and make use of your resources.”

All went quiet for a moment. Aya was thinking. It was easy to see with her habit of playing with her hair when considering something.

“If you don't mind, Warden Amell, I would like to consult with my advisors before I make the decision. In the meantime...” she spread her arms welcomingly. “What's mine is yours. Feel free to make yourself at home.”

Amell seemed taken aback, unsure of how to react to the offer. She finally dipped her head respectfully.

“Thank you, Inquisitor.”

As the woman opened the door, Aya stopped her.

“Oh, Warden? Could you please send Garret in? He's just behind the door and I'd _really_ love to talk to him right now.”

Another small smile twisted Amell's lips in proper amusement.

“Try to go easy on him, lady Inquisitor,” she said softly. Aya grinned and Cullen took a deep breath the moment she left the room, catching Leliana peering at him and mentally preparing himself for the interrogation he would be facing after Hawke.

 

                                                                                                                       ****

 

She was sitting alone.

How could a woman who had saved the world and proudly defended one of Thedas' most controversial organisations possibly find time alone?

Especially when dressed in the recognisable light blue armour, her presence flooding the room like fire; her steel grey eyes were the only focal point in the entire tavern, one small, clean hand lifting a mug to her perfect lips.

She was _drinking_ alone.

He grit his teeth. None of this would have happened if not for him. He took a woman's life and destroyed it like a child with pottery, dumbly shattering its beauty and ignorantly wondering if it could be fixed again.

Her eyes locked with his and his stomach _lurched_. He had to bite down on his tongue to stop himself from throwing up. Those eyes had been with him every night. Every time he closed his eyes he saw the _thing_ wearing her skin, and in quiet moments he still heard it laughing...

He hadn't realised that his traitorous feet had drawn him to her until she tilted her head – that habit that she had never quite broken – and said his name questioningly.

He opened his mouth, torn between fear and guilt – he half expected those hands to reach out, to grab him and drag him down – to whisper dark secrets into his ear, scratch at him with claws, taunt him with his own sin.

“Warden Amell,” he finally choked out. After looking at him for a moment, she sighed.

“When did you officially make the transition?” she asked idly. “When did you decide you weren't going to use my name any more?”

She took a swig from her tankard; how much had she imbibed already? The small mugs used to shot spirits scattered around her implied it was a substantial amount, and when he couldn't summon words, she sighed into her drink.

“Don't bother, I think I know when it was.” She looked up at him again and pushed one of the shot mugs over to him.

“You look like you could use one,” she said cheekily. “Sit down.”

Without thinking, he obeyed, sniffing the mysterious brown liquid and easily downing it as he realised what it was. Elise gave a grim half-smile.

“Scotch man, are you?” she asked playfully. Gingerly sitting, Cullen grunted noncommittally, keeping his gaze locked on a particularly interesting swirl in the grain of the table. He wasn’t even sure why he was there, forcing his presence on the poor woman, torturing her ever further with every moment – why couldn’t he just leave her alone?

“Maker, Cullen, will you _look at me?_ ”

Her voice snapped him into the present, aware that he was on the edge of the bench, as though prepared to leap to his feet and flee at any moment. He lifted his eyes to hers; that steel gaze which had never left his mind ever sharp and shining just a little more than usual, and he was lost again.

She was so beautiful.

Everybody had always noticed her curly, bright red hair first, like the fire that spewed from her hands; and then it was her eyes, sharp and intelligent, grey like polished steel, and if they were close enough, they would see the freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks.

“Remember when you set your hair on fire?” he blurted out suddenly. Elise blinked, taken by surprise and without warning she released a bright, hearty laugh, dropping her head into her hands. It was years ago, back in the Ferelden Circle when they were both mere recruits, still learning their way. She had been trying to conjure a small, controllable flame to light a fire, intense concentration written across her face, when her friend had made a comment about how beautiful she was when she was focusing. Elise had laughed shyly, blush shooting across her pale cheeks, and had run her hand through her hair, completely forgetting about the tiny flame she had conjured.

Her hair had lit up and she took off the instant she felt it, a high pitched scream tearing from her chest as she sprinted around in circles, yelping out curses that nobody in the Circle should have been saying and almost setting a bookshelf on fire before another apprentice had dumped a pitcher of water over her head, soaking through her robes and outlining her tiny form.

Templars had come running to investigate the screams, swords drawn and expecting an abomination or blood magic to battle, and were confronted by a group of apprentices leaning against each other, laughing hysterically while Elise sat on the ground, arms folded and a grumpy frown set on her face.

Elise recovered from her laughing fit for long enough to pour another shot for him, from a pitcher that had appeared out of nowhere. She poured one for herself and lifted it to tap against his, shooting him a grin.

“Ready?” she purred, and a chill went through him.

_Don’t! Stay on your guard!_ Shouted something deep within him, and he nodded, their drinks meeting and both being swallowed quickly. Elise snorted after she had swallowed, plopping her mug down and leaning back.

“And do you remember the time Greagoir gave orders to an empty suit of armour?” she giggled. Cullen couldn’t help but laugh, accepting another shot from her and downing it, almost choking on the burning liquor. His face was starting to feel warm now.

“Yes, one of the apprentices had moved an armour stand into the hall,” he chuckled. Greagoir had stood in front of the empty suit, made several commands and angrily demanded why the Templar hadn’t answered him when a mage had politely informed him that empty suits of armour could, in fact, not answer.

Elise laughed again, head dropping back to expose her long, slender throat. Cullen’s stomach dropped. She was exposing herself so vulnerably to him, as though it _wasn't_ his fault that she was in mourning, that the attack hadn't gone properly. Her armour left so much of her neck bare, dangerously vulnerable, and a pendant had slipped free of the layers of steel and leather, a long, thing thong with a tiny vial dangling from it – filled with a dark red liquid.

Righting herself, Elise looked into her drink for a time before glancing up with a grin.

“Zevran taught me a trick,” she said, as though he would recognise the name. “But I can't do it in here. Let me show you.”

She jumped to her feet, a little unsteady and Cullen also leaped up, intending to stabilize her but realising that he needed just as much help; he grabbed the table as the room spun, staring at Elise dumbly. She laughed and nodded at another, mysteriously filled shot mug.

“One for the road,” she suggested. A small, quiet part in him warned him, told him that he had already imbibed enough to cloud his judgement and shake his balance, but it was easily ignored in the light of Elise's smile, her bright eyes.

He downed it without another thought, not even considering how it would look for the Commander of their armies to be leaving the Herald's Rest drunkenly with a strange, beautiful woman.

Once they were outside, Elise practically danced her way behind the tavern, and produced a small vial of clear liquid from her armour.

She uncorked it and the smell of the alcohol was so strong it wafted over to him and made his eyes water. She grinned at him, lifting it.

“This is so strong it'll knock a Qunari over,” she purred. She took a mouthful and stepped back, holding her hand out to keep him away.

She threw her head back, spitting out the liquid in a powerful spray which erupted into flame, and all he could see was a dragon, wings up as it spat fire.

When the flame died he must have had a shocked expression on his face, for her to laugh as she did. She sauntered towards him with the vial, tapping a few drops onto her tongue and making a face as she swallowed. A shudder went through her and she gave him a challenging smile, to which he grinned and took the vial, swigging it.

It burned like fire the instant it touched his tongue and his body immediately rejected it. He had to concentrate on her bright eyes, admiring the way her long lashes framed them in order to stop himself from spitting it out.

It burned his throat, too when he swallowed it painfully, and he coughed, eyes burning. Elise laughed again, covering her mouth and hunching over. Tears gathered in her eyes and her laugh was a beautiful, free thing; like birdsong.

Maker, she was so beautiful.

“I'm sorry,” he blurted out. Elise smiled, corking the vial of demon drink.

“First time I had it, I threw up,” she said playfully. When he moved, it was like he was watching from above, he saw himself bear down on her small female form, take her face in his large hands and stare down at her intensely.

“No,” he insisted. “I'm sorry I couldn't control myself.”

Elise released another, slightly nervous, drunken laugh.

“Looks like you’re oot ya tree, Rutherford,” she said, emphasising the light Starkhaven accent she had nearly lost from her years in Ferelden. She had only been dragged to the circle as a “Wee lass,” as she liked to say, and it took its toll on that accent – one he didn't want to admit was so sexy to him. She lifted her soft hands to curl around his thick wrists – Maker, how did such a vicious woman who had won an impossible war still have such soft, unmarked hands?

“It's my fault,” he whispered, ignoring her beautiful accent, entranced. “If I could have just grown up and ignored you..” He sighed, pressing his forehead against hers. She was flushed, warm. He loved her. “They wouldn't have sent you away.”

He knew it was his fault, what else could it have been? Greagoir had tried to make him act like a Templar, tried to stop the unhealthy obsession he had been developing for the fierce little woman, but he was too weak. They gave her away to the Wardens to separate them, let him do his duty. 

“Cullen,” she whispered, her voice so gentle, so sweet. He lifted her head and kissed her. He couldn't stop himself; she was so soft, so kind, he selfishly wanted her all to himself. He wanted to her to love him the way he loved her, and he hated that he wanted so much from a woman he had already taken everything from.

He hated that she didn't stop him. Was she scared? Did she still see him as her jailor, forcing himself on her? He wanted her to shove him away, call him a disgusting piece of shit, slap him.

She wrapped her arms around his neck.

She tilted her head for him.

She _moaned._

He managed to gather just enough control to pull back, shocked that he could have done such a thing.

“I'm sorry,” he choked out again. Elise's eyes were wide, her perfect lips were parted temptingly.

“It isn't your fault,” she whispered, those beautiful grey eyes lidded and dazed, those words resonating within his very soul. She placed her hands on his chest, pushed him back as she stepped forwards, kissed him again.

The next few minutes passed in a daze; he lost himself in her eyes, her lips, he carried her small form with her legs twined around his waist, he growled as she bit down on his lip, he chased her up the stairs, she laughed as he tripped, so distracted by the sway of her hips, he pinned her against a door and kissed her, she opened the door and they fell in, she spotted him admiring her ass as she climbed a ladder and gave it a playful smack...

He had no idea where his armour had gone; when he had discarded his clothes, but he was too busy to care as Elise ran her nails along his bare chest, sending a shiver through him. With bright, aroused eyes on him, she ducked and ran her tongue along the light red lines her nails had caused, tearing a groan from deep within him.

He dragged her up to his lips again, greedily pressing her small body against his, her soft, warm lips melded to his. She took control of her own armour, laughter muffled by his mouth at his futile attempts to open the many complicated straps and buckles.

He ran his fingers along her jaw first, her cheeks. She was so soft, skin smooth and delicate beneath his rough fingers, like silk. His fingers ran down her slender, almost elven neck, to her warm shoulders, exuding the heat her armour had trapped, and a light, girlish giggle purred in her chest as he cupped her heavy breasts, squeezing the soft flesh and tweaking a pebbled nipple – he couldn't help himself.

She was every bit as soft as he had imagined, and he drew back enough to note that she was even more beautiful than his sinful mind had conjured up. Her body was toned, a few scars littering her mostly clear skin. He reached out to trace one, wondering what could have possibly gotten close enough, but she grasped his wrist with one hand, the other boldly grasping his hardened cock.

“Maker!” he gasped. He hadn't expected her to be so forward. The curl of her lips revealed her amusement at his reaction and she ran her palm up the length of him, gentle fingers tracing the underside of his balls. He shuddered, cock jumping, and grasped her cheek, stealing another sloppy kiss.

He walked her backwards, her hands lifting to grasp at his shoulders for stability, and colliding with him as the backs of her legs bumped into his bed. He took hold of her hips, shoving her and she dropped onto the bed with a bright, feminine squeal that drew a predatory growl from his own chest.

He dropped onto her, revelling in her moan as he bit down on her narrow throat, his cock nestled between her warm thighs. He rocked his hips, rubbing it against her soft skin and groaning softly as tingles of pleasure danced up and down his spine.

“Maker, stop fucking around and put your cock in me,” Elise snapped, and he couldn't do anything but obey immediately, directing his length with one hand and releasing a weak, shuddering moan as he pressed against her opening, slick evidence of her enjoyment coating him warmly. She lifted her hips, grumbling and he humoured her, gently pressing his head into her.

A long, guttural groan ripped out of him, a responding gasp coming from Elise as he slowly pressed further into her. Her warm, wet channel fit snugly around him, like she was made for him, clenching as Elise wrapped her legs around him and drew his face down for ferocious kisses, nails scratching at the back of his neck.

He swore, arching his back, drawing out and pushing all the way back in. She was tight, she was beautiful.

She was his.

He grasped her thigh, large hand nearly wrapping around it, and fucked her, hard and fast. He needed to feel her squeezing as she came, shredding his skin with her nails. He needed to hear his name from those lips, a desperate wail he wanted to echo around Skyhold and send everyone guessing as to who the Commander was pleasuring so intensely.

He bit down again, harder, until she clenched around him and squealed.

“Fuck!” she cried, nails digging in to his neck. He bit harder for a moment and released her, placing gentle kisses onto the mark his teeth had made. After all these years he finally had her. She wanted him, she forgave him for what he had done. She loved him.

Now she was his he was never letting her get hurt again. He would protect her. He was smarter now, stronger, he could make her happy now. He would keep her safe and show her every day, every night, how much he loved her.

She moaned loudly, swore, bucked against him. His cock his something deep inside her and they both howled, him bracing himself and moving faster, harder, his small, rickety bed slamming against the wall and groaning in protest, and Elise swore again, a chorus of moans and _“yes, yes, fuck, harder,”_ escaping her so quickly he could barely make out what she was saying.

She was his, he loved her, they could be together, free from the Circle. Nobody could stop them.

She threw her head back with a guttural yell, nails digging into his skin, making him hiss, and cunt clenching so tightly around him he had to stop for a moment. Her limbs all stiffened, her back arched, and he couldn't make it for much longer, pressing in as deep as he could go with her squeezing cunt and finally releasing with his own ragged groan.

She made a soft, whimpering noise, fluttering around his twitching cock, and he dropped his head, panting, suddenly aware of the beads of sweat on his forehead when he pressed it against her heaving breast.

He slowly drew out of her, her cunt clenching one last time as though to mourn his absence, and collapsed onto his side, pressed against her on the small bed.

She was also panting, a satisfied, silly smile on her face, and she looked at him. His heart melted. He wrapped his arm around her middle, pressed his forehead against hers. He hadn't been so happy for as long as he could remember.

“I love you,” he finally said, _finally_. But she missed it, breathing becoming deep and even as she fell asleep. He smiled, closed his eyes and said it again, and again. It felt so right. A small part of him was aware that he would awaken with a hangover to kill a horse, but he found he didn't care. Not when he was waking up next to Elise.


	2. Afterwards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen faces his guilt and looks back on his night with Elise.

The paper was thin and weak, wrinkled from the many hands it had passed. From Leliana to the Inquisitor, to Josephine, back to the Inquisitor, and finally to him. There were two letters in unfamiliar writing, a page of comments with it, and he read over it again, as though it would be different this time.

_She has been a great help to Frederic, the Wardens and the Inquisition as a whole. I suggest erecting a statue in honour of her and Warden Alistair._

                                                                                                                                                          – _Josephine_

He hadn’t even gotten a chance to say goodbye. She had disappeared by the time he awoke, no sign of her presence aside from the pieces of his armour strewn about the floor and the piercing headache reminding him of his mistakes the night before.

_I would like to gather together her friends from the Blight and mourn her quietly together._

_– Leliana_

He hadn’t seen her the next day, either. He had searched high and low around Skyhold, sent scouts looking for her, worried that something might have happened, that she might have been hurt. It was only when he went to Leliana for help that he had learned.

_Madame Warden made it clear that we were not to talk about it, that she would disappear one day and I was not to ask questions. She has, however been an indispensable help and, if I may, a good friend._

She had left the very night they were…together, a note for Leliana explaining that she was riding for the Western Approach to work with Professor Frederic, studying dragons and their resistance to the Blight. Even the Nightingale herself didn’t understand her sudden disappearance, didn’t realise that he was behind it all.

He took advantage of a grieving, inebriated woman, whose life he had already ruined, and then took her dignity. He had chased her away from Skyhold with his lack of self-control, must have filled her with guilt. The woman had _just lost her husband!_

_She has decided to tell me that she will be dead soon, and that it is an inevitable part of being a Grey Warden. Today I watched her ride away, knowing it was the last time, and in her memory I can only stress just how much she has helped me with my research, not only expanding the world of Dragonology, but the study of the Blight._

He wished he could have apologised to her. She had left before he had even realised the gravity of his actions, fleeing in the night so she wouldn’t have to face him again – the jailor whose obsession with her had caused nothing but trouble she had to pay for.

Under Frederic’s letter was a note signed with a name he didn’t recognise, in flat, blocky handwriting.

_It was an honour to fight with Warden Amell. Her bravery facing the darkspawn was only matched by the fury with which she dispatched them. She left many bodies behind her before she was finally brought down by an alpha ogre, and ancestors – she didn’t go down without a fight. I’ve never seen someone get bitten by an ogre and then bite back._

If only their paths had never crossed. If only he had not fallen into that deadly obsession, if only she had been brought to _any other_ Circle! He hated himself, hated that he was so weak. He hoped that she cursed him until her last breath, saw his face in every darkspawn she slew.

She was a light in a dark world, a light he quenched thoughtlessly and without care, and he sat down at his desk, laying the crinkled papers out and looking down tiredly. He hadn’t slept more than a few hours at a time since she left, staring up at the roof and thinking of her warm body, her goofy little smile.

_Drunk_ little smile, he corrected himself. Too drunk to say no – he had practically raped her. And yet every day he looked longingly at Skyhold’s gate and prayed he would see her bright blue armour, her unmissable red hair, as though anybody would want to return after what he had done to her.

He dropped his head into his hands, breath catching in his throat. She was more than a light, she was a _hero._ He forced her into a life of danger and she made the best of it, saved the world from the Blight, found someone to love, to marry. He tried to have her killed, all of her friends and she showed him mercy, saved him. He took advantage of her when she was most vulnerable and she enacted no revenge, even helped the Inquisition.

She was heroic and selfless, bright and perfect and he did nothing but ruin her.

He deserved the worst of his withdrawls, to be stripped of rank and name, to die a deserter’s death. He deserved to be forgotten by history, not a single thought spared for him by those who followed. He didn’t deserve the mercy he was shown, the friends he had made. He didn’t deserve Aya’s trust or Josephine’s kindness or Leliana’s respect.

Leliana.

He stood, feeling older than a man of barely thirty should. Leliana would hate him. She was Elise’s friend. She told stories of them singing by the campfire during the Blight, laughing and making the best of what life had done to them.

He would face the Nightingale’s wrath. Anything he might have offered the Inquisition was overshadowed by his sin, he hoped Leliana would drag him through the mud and replace him, Aya looking on darkly as the droplets of poison tainting his drink took him, a suitably quiet and forgettable death.

He would tell her and she would dispose of him.

He deserved it.


End file.
